


Rescue Missions and Mistaken Identities

by scifigrl47



Series: Tales of the Bots [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: DJ is in such trouble there isn't even words, Deaged adult, Escape caper, Family/Domestic fic, Gen, Jarvis is going to spend the next week bitching him out, but not really, kids in jeopardy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which DJ Stark meets another kid.</p><p>Too bad that kid is someone who shouldn't be a kid, and doesn't know that DJ isn't always, either.</p><p>What follows is an escape attempt, thus making it the worst possible playdate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaxieAmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxieAmor/gifts).



> For Paxie, who requested DJ getting to play with a deaged Avenger for her birthday. She didn't get what she wanted, I'm pretty sure, but hopefully she enjoys it anyway. 8)
> 
> Warnings for child endangerment, scared children, and involuntary drugging via a needle. No long term damage, just a knockout drug administered by one of the good guys.

He felt like he'd been hit by a truck. And yes. He knew what that felt like. Damn sisters.

Groaning, he rolled over, and his face scraped against the ground, and his stomach kept going. For a second, he thought he was going to throw up, and he squeezed his eyes and his mouth shut, breathing through his nose in short, quick bursts. When his stomach reluctantly settled back where it belonged, he risked opening his eyes.

He regretted that pretty much instantly, because he had no idea where he was.

Fear scraped at the edges of his mind, his heart pounding, his stomach churning, and he struggled to breathe normally. Slow, and steady. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He forced himself back under control, and he was shaking the entire time.

Panic was the enemy now. He knew that. He absolutely knew that. He needed to calm down. He needed to think. Taking another slow, even breath, he pushed himself up, scooting backwards, away from the exposed middle of the floor. Putting himself up against the wall, where he could at least watch for attack, he drew his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

He could not panic. He needed to take stock of the situation. Think about this carefully. Figure out what he did know.

The room was unfamiliar. More than that, the room was foreign. The furniture was heavy and big and clean, and it was a bedroom. From where he was sitting, he could see there was a huge, massive bed, bureau and mirror and some doors, one of which was half open. He leaned forward, just a little, and he could seen the the light reflecting off the tile floor in there; probably a bathroom, then. There were heavy curtains drawn up along the wall, and all the light was coming from recessed fixtures.

He didn't know this room. 

He didn't even know the clothes he was wearing. They were too big, way too big, adult clothes, and they were falling off of him. The t-shirt had a bullseye target in the middle of the chest, and he pulled it away from his skin to read the words. “Gunshots attract zombies.” Shaking his head, he let the fabric fall back to his chest. 

He took a breath, and stood up, nearly losing the too-large sweatpants he was wearing. He cinched up the drawstring as much as he could and tied the pants off, then rolled up the legs so he wouldn't trip on them. The t-shirt hung down way past his hips but that was okay. He could ignore that.

Carefully, he picked his way across the carpeted floor. The room was quiet, and empty, and the doors opened without any problems. Closets, a couple of them, with rows of gray and black suits and shined shoes, with black shirts and cargo pants. He picked his way from door to door, staying close to the wall, staying quiet, until he found the one that lead out of the bedroom.

The door led to a room that was just as quiet, just as empty, and just as unfamiliar. He could feel the fear clawing at him, fear and panic, and he could not give in to either one of them. He knew better. His sisters might be here, somewhere. He might be alone. But his mother had told him what to do, if he was kidnapped, if he woke up and he was alone and he thought that he was in trouble. His parents would be looking for him.

He took a deep breath, and slipped out into the larger room. 

He did a quick search, but nothing was familiar. Big expanses of glass and shiny metal boxes, the things were almost alien, out of a sci-fi movie, mixed in with things that were almost familiar. Table. A couple of chairs. A rather ordinary looking lamp on a futuristic table of glass and metal. A handful of books were next to the lamp, the Hobbit on top of the pile. A plain white coffee cup was on the low table, and a massive frame, filled with dark glass, hung on the wall, blank and strange.

The curtains were open here. He crept forward, cautious and careful, and stared down at the city scape. A long, long way down. Where ever he was, whatever he was doing here, the room he was in was a long way from the ground, and a long way from anything he knew. New York? He tilted his head to the side, staring in one direction and then the other, and he frowned at the skyline. No. Not New York. Things weren't-

Panic. He could not panic. He had to get himself out of here, and he had to find if he was alone, or if they'd taken his sisters too, they were just babies, they wouldn't-

There was a kitchen. He grabbed the pad of paper from the table, and filled his pockets with apples from the fruit bowl. Fruit. Fruit was safe, still intact, one piece. He turned a banana over and over in his hands, checking for anything that would show that it had been tampered with. Peeling it, he shoved it in his mouth and grabbed a pen from the cup on the counter.

“My name is Philip Coulson,” he wrote, printing clearly. “I am nine years old. I am being held against my will.” He added his mother and father's names, and his address, folded it up tight, and slipped it in his pocket. 

He expected to find the main door locked. It wasn't. It opened easily under his hand, and he stared at the thin crack, at the light beyond, and he leaned forward. Pressed his ear to the slim crack, then his eye. No sound, no movement.

He closed his eyes. Either someone was coming for him, or no one was. Either the person coming for him was going to save him, or that person was going to put him back and lock him up this time. Phil took a deep breath, and his stomach rolled over. He pushed it back into place with a force of will, because he was not going to go down without a fight.

He was a Coulson. And he was going to cause a world of hurt on anyone who forgot that.

He slipped through the door and was off and running before he could think twice.

*

Despite the size of the building, Phil hadn't seen many people. He stayed to the back stairwells, away from the sleek elevators and away from the sounds of footsteps and voices. There were emergency evacuation maps on the backs of doors and on various landings, and he had a name for the place where he was, “Stark Tower.”

He focused on moving down, towards the street, towards a way out.

But he'd heard people coming at a couple of places, heard the ping of the elevator doors before they opened, and he'd had to backtrack, and retreat. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up on this particular set of stairs, but the door at the top had opened for him, and he was halfway down when he heard the door open again.

He took the rest of the stairs at a run, only to find that they came to a dead end at a huge expanse of glass panels. Left with no choice, Phil ducked under the stairs, pushing himself into the space below them, folding himself up and making himself as small as possible. 

“Dummy!” There was the sound of steps, right above his head, and Phil locked a hand over his mouth, clutching tight, blocking any sound he might've made. 

The woman was tall, and delicate, and very pretty, with a sweep of strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a sleek pony tail. She was in a blue business suit and high heels, really high heels. She had a file folder in the crook of her arm. “They wanted me to check on you, since Agent Collins isn't here yet.” She was at the bottom of the stairs now, and she was talking to the glass wall. “Oh, no. I'm not coming in. I'm not taking the chance that you're going to escape. I've played that game too many times, I open the door and the next thing I know, you're running loose and then I have to take the blame.”

Phil twisted slightly, trying to be quiet, trying to avoid the light, but he angled himself, far enough that he could see beyond her, to the person she was talking to. It was a little boy, maybe four or five years old, the same as Phil's sister, and Phil stared. The child was wearing only a pair of battered and dirty jeans. His feet were bare on the concrete of the floor, pale and fragile looking, and his thin torso was mottled with bruises. Despite that, he was staring up at the woman without any fear on his face. He reached for the door handle and tugged on it.

“No. Dummy. No.”

The little boy pounded on the glass, his little fists drawn up tight. His face twisted, his lower lip sticking out, his eyes big and wet. 

The woman sighed, sounding frustrated. “Dummy. Until Jarvis is back, or until someone is here to watch over you, you can't come out. I know you've already been told this, so stop it.” 

The boy kicked the glass with one bare foot, sniffling. He scrubbed at his face with the back of one hand, but the tears were falling too fast for him to stop. He made a high, angry sound, not a word, just a wail, and the woman pressed a hand to her eyes. 

“Go,” she said, pointing, and the boy stood still, his face stubborn beneath the tears. The woman huffed out an annoyed breath. “Right now. Or you'll be in for it.” She stabbed a finger in mid-air. “Back to your station. Now.”

The boy held his ground for another moment, then, his shoulders slumping, still crying, he stomped across the bare concrete floor. As Phil watched, getting angrier by the moment, the little boy climbed onto a metal plate that was set into the floor. He curled up in a ball on the ground, his back to the glass.

The woman turned away from the glass, and Phil caught her rolling her eyes. “Stop pouting, DJ,” she said, and she sounded like she was laughing, like she was amused by the little boy's misery. “You have work to do, or you can wait until ”

The boy didn't move, his bare back a resentful curve.

Shaking her head, the woman headed up the stairs. Phil, pressed back into the shadows beneath them, held his breath, but she never looked down, never seemed to notice that there was she wasn't alone.

Phil waited until he was sure she was gone, then he waited another five minutes. Then, carefully, he crept out, moving up to the glass. Reaching out, he tapped lightly on the panel. The boy twitched, but didn't turn. Phil tapped again, a little harder. “Hey. Hey, kid.”

This time, the boy rolled over, so fast that he ended up on his knees on the floor. Scrambling forward, then up, the boy padded over to the glass. Up close, he was a really cute kid, all huge dark eyes and tumbled hair. He stared at Phil through the glass, his head tipped to the side, his face curious.

Phil gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hi,” he said, still speaking as quietly as he could. “I'm Phil.”

The boy smiled back, nodding. He gave a little wave.

“What's your name?” Phil asked, and the boy's smile died a little. He shook his head. Phil studied him. “You can't talk?” The boy just stared at him, and Phil wanted to punch someone. “But you can understand me, right?” The boy nodded, a wide grin splitting his face. He gave Phil a thumbs up, and Phil laughed. “Okay. That's good. We can work with that., right? I can do the talking.”

He reached for the door handle, and gave it a pull. It didn't budge, and Phil gritted his teeth. “First, though, we've got to get you out of there, okay? Don't be afraid, it's gonna be okay. But we've got to get out of here.”

The boy blinked at him, and then nodded, his eyes lighting. He pointed up, to the right of the door. Phil followed his gesture, frowning at the unbroken pane of glass. “What?” On the other side of the wall, the kid huffed out a breath, and stood on his tiptoes, holding his hand over the glass.

Phil mimicked the gesture, and had to choke back a yelp when a series of glowing numbers appeared under his fingers. His hand jerked back, and the numbered squares disappeared again. The boy giggled, and Phil glared at him. “I wasn't expect that, okay?” Cautious now, he reached out, and the buttons reappeared. The boy tapped on the glass, getting Phil's attention. He held up two fingers.

It took him a second, but Phil figured it out. “Oh!” Carefully, he hit the two on the array of numbers, and it lit up for a second. The boy nodded, and held up five fingers. Carefully, the two of them worked their way through the code, and, with a click, the door unlocked. Grinning, Phil grabbed the handle, and this time, the door opened without an issue.

“Good job,” Phil said to the boy, who grinned. Dummy, the woman had called him, but he wasn't, clearly, he wasn't stupid, he wasn't dumb. He was barefoot and bare chested, and small and there were bruises on his ribs and his arm, and scrapes on his knuckles, he was maybe abused or neglected, but he wasn't stupid.

Phil was pretty sure he hated that woman.

“Okay, now we just have to-” Phil broke off when the boy tugged at the fabric of his shirt, giggling. “Yeah, it's too big, but its' what I've got, you work with what you've got,” he told the boy, who grabbed his arm. “What? What are you-” Making a high, happy keening noise, the boy pulled Phil across the room. It was expansive, and the concrete floor was cold through Phil's oversized socks, but as they moved across the floor, lights came on.

There was a small room behind the door that the boy opened, and he let go of Phil to scramble over to a set of metal drawers, like an oversized tool box. But when the boy opened the drawer, it contained not tools, but clothes. Small clothes. The boy dug through, tossing shirts and shorts in all directions.

“Those are yours?” Phil asked. “You're too small, I can't fit in anything-”

The boy turned around and thrust a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt in Phil's direction, grinning. Phil took them, holding them up. “Oh,” he said, and immediately, he started stripping off the too large shirt and pants. “Thanks!”

As he dressed, he glanced at the scattered pieces of clothing, his stomach sinking. All different sizes. From clothes for toddlers to teenagers, all different colors and sizes and how many kids had been locked up down here? How many were still here?

“Is anyone else here?” he asked the boy, who blinked at him. “Any other kids?” He tugged the shirt over his head. It had a robot on the front, a flying robot and the words “Property of Stark Industries.”

The boy's head tipped to the side, and he smiled. He shook his head no, clearly amused by the question.

“Just you?” Phil asked, wanting to be sure. The boy reached out and tapped Phil in the middle of the chest. “Just you and me?” The boy nodded. “Okay.” Phil wasn't sure if he was relieved or sick about that. He reached out and took the boy's hand. “Let's find you some shoes, and we can-”

The boy pulled free from Phil's grip and shot off, back for the main door. Phil, caught off guard, had to run to catch up. “Hey! Wait, don't-”

But the boy was already out the door, and running for the stairs. Cursing, Phil scrambled to catch up. They had to find a way out of here, and they had to do it before anyone realized either of them was missing.

But one way or another, he was going to get this kid out of here.

*

The boy knew the building. Phil wondered if he'd gotten out before. And if he had, how far he'd gotten before they'd caught him and put him back. On some level, it was reassuring. They hadn't killed him, or even injured him badly, if he was willing to try again.

Of course, the kid seemed to be fearless.

Phil found himself following the boy through quiet, dimly lit back corridors, and down empty stairwells. Despite his bare feet, the kid moved fast, without pausing. He paused on one landing, glancing up at the evacuation sign.

“What's your name?” Phil asked. The boy looked at him, his mouth pressed tightly closed. Phil pointed at the sign. “Can you spell your name? Can you point to the letters?”

The boy looked, and his face relaxed. He reached up and tapped a finger against a letter D, and then the letter J. Phil waited, but the boy's hand went back to his side. “DJ?” Phil asked. The boy nodded, grinning. “Okay,” Phil said, and it was a relief. It was a relief to have a name. Even as he said it, though, he remembered the red-headed woman calling the boy that. Phil wondered if that was his real name.

DJ tapped a spot on the diagram, and Phil leaned in, frowning at the image. “A loading dock?” he asked, and DJ shook his head. Whatever that space was, DJ had set his sights on that particular spot on the map. He grabbed Phil's hand and dragged him down the stairs, giggling as he hopped down the stairs.

Phil held on tight to his hand, telling himself that it was to protect the smaller boy. But right now, DJ was the only thing he had to hold onto, and he didn't know if that was for DJ's benefit, or his own. He wasn't sure it mattered.

DJ reached the landing, pushed the door open, and stopped short.

The guard blinked down at them. “Hi, DJ,” he said, reaching up to to adjust his cap. “I didn't think that you were supposed to be-”

DJ slammed the door shut and slammed a hand against the keypad next to the door. He hit a few keys, and there was the sound of a lock engaging with a hollow clunk. Phil stared at the closed panel. “I think we'd better-”

An alarm started to wail.

“Run,” Phil finished, and DJ was already way ahead of him, scrambling down the stairs, his bare feet rattling over the metal of the stairs. Phil tried to ignore the alarms, ignore the fear that was now clawing at his throat. Fear was fine, he reminded himself. Fear was fine. He just couldn't give into the fear.

DJ grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop on a landing, and dragged him to a stop. “DJ, what-” Phil started, as the boy crouched down by the covering of a vent. Fumbling in his pants pocket, he pulled out a small screwdriver, and attacked the screws. There was a hollow, echoing bang from the landing above them, and Phil flinched.

DJ pushed the grate cover open and sat back. When Phil looked at him, confused, DJ pointed, down into the dark space behind of the vent.

Phil looked down the empty black hole, his stomach sinking. “Are you sure?” DJ nodded. Phil glanced up the stairs; the pounding on the door was getting worse, they were going to get it open at this rate. He wasn't even sure how DJ had locked it. “No, really,” he said to DJ. “You've done this before?”

DJ nodded, tugging at his sleeve, and Phil took a deep breath. He was about to swing a leg over the edge when he had an idea. “Hold on, one sec-” Running up the stairs, he stopped on the landing, ignoring the sound of the guards pounding on the door. There was a glass fronted case there, and he pulled it open, yanking out the fire hose. It was heavy, heavier than he'd thought it would be, but DJ was right there next to him. Phil ripped the hose out of the case, tumbling it down to the floor, and together, they dragged it down the stairs, and started feeding it down into the darkness. 

There was a bang down below, echoing through the staircase, and the sound of voices and boots pounding on metal.

“Out of time,” Phil said, and DJ grabbed the hose, slipping over the edge of the vent and disappearing in an instant. Phil took a deep breath, and, as the footsteps got closer, followed Dummy into the darkness.

He concentrated on moving downwards, on clinging to the hose as they slipped down into the darkness. He wasn't sure how long they went down, or how far, but the hose was really long, really, really long, and he was trying not to freak out, because he could hear DJ humming along below him, clearly unconcerned.

He almost bumped into DJ, his foot just bumping into the smaller boy's head, and he stopped, bracing his legs against the wall. “What?” he whispered, and that was stupid, he couldn't see DJ in here, and the boy couldn't talk, so what was he expecting? But DJ's hand closed on his ankle and tugged, just a little, and so Phil waited. Waited to see what he'd do.

What he did was push open a panel that Phil hadn't even known was there, and scramble through. Phil was right behind him, arms shaking to finally be on the level, to not be clinging to the too rough surface of the fire hose, to be crawling awkwardly over the metal of the vent, towards a pale burst of light up ahead.

They got there, and DJ paused, looking back at him. Phil came up next to him, peering into the slits of light made by the grating. He couldn't see much beyond muted carpet and what appeared to be an empty corridor, and he glanced at DJ. “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

DJ considered that, his face wrinkling up. Then he nodded. Then he shook his head. “So, not really?” Phil translated, and DJ nodded at him. “Well, wanna see if we can get the grate up?” he asked. DJ set his fingers on the edge of the panel, and together, they wrestled it up. Before Phil could stop him, DJ leaned over, sticking his head through the gap, and an instant later, he was wiggling around and jumping down. Phil jerked forward, heart in his throat, but DJ was clambering to his feet, grinning up at him.

“Don't do that,” Phil said, trying to sound stern, but DJ just grinned and waved his arms. “Yeah, yeah, I'm coming.” Twisting around in the narrow space, he slid his legs over the edge and pushed off. He hit the ground with both feet, just the way his mom had taught him, and rolled with the impact. His ankles still hurt, but he got back up, ignoring the ache.

“Where do we go from-”

“Hey! Stop right there!”

Phil didn't even pause. He just grabbed DJ's hand and ran, away from the guards, away from the sound of pounding feet and yelling, he latched onto DJ's hand and ran, as fast as he could. For a second, he was almost dragging DJ, and then the boy was running with him. Running fast, his hand clasped tight with Phil's, he ran, and then he was pulling Phil along, pulling him forward, showing him the way as they ducked around a corner, through a door marked 'emergency exit only,' and down a set of stairs.

As the alarms blared, they scrambled down the halls, ducking past people and dodging hands that reached for them. Phil felt fingers slide over his shoulders, his arms, and he shook them off, tugging hard against the ones who grabbed for his shirt.

They ran for what felt like forever, and Phil's legs ached, his lungs burning. He barely looked to the left or right, he just ran, DJ's hand squeezed tight in his. They turned a corner, feet scrambling against the carpet, and there was a door at the end of the corridor. DJ was the one who reached it first, pushing it open and yanking Phil through it, and just like that, they were out in the open, exposed, trapped. 

It was a lobby, or some sort of entry way, or at least it was, down below. They were two floors up, or maybe three, from the vast, marble floors and a huge, deep fountain with water that crashed over its basin. The whole place was surrounded by massive glass walls. But there were doors, Phil could see doors, and the street beyond, yellow taxis and people. Safety. 

Phil ran for the staircase, and stopped short as a phalanx of guards advanced, their bodies in neat formation, packed too close together for Phil to push through. DJ moved forward, darting towards them, and Phil wrapped an arm around his chest, dragging him back. “Don't,” he said, his voice quiet.

“We have them cornered,” one of the guards said, the fingers of one hand pressed against his ear. “Seal the exits.”

Phil turned back, the way they'd come, but that door was blocked by guards now, too, men and women in black uniforms with weird looking guns, and they were coming in from every angle. Breathing hard, Phil retreated, backing up until he hit the railing. The people were everywhere, pressing in around them, trapping them, and Phil wanted to sob.

Instead, Phil shoved DJ behind him. “Stay there,” he said, and DJ leaned into his back, his arms going around Phil's waist. 

“Okay, son,” one of the guards was saying, one hand held out in a placating manner, “just stay here, stay calm, it's going to be fine. Just let us-”

Phil gave him a look, but didn't say a word. Instead, he caught DJ's arm and dragged it over his shoulder. DJ, catching on immediately, climbed onto Phil's back, his legs hitched up tight on Phil's waist. 

The guard frowned, and all around him, men were whispering, eyes pinning the two boys in place. Phil heard one of them say, “The Avengers are back on site,” and the spokesman nodded, relief sweeping over his features. 

“They'll handle this.”

Phil wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't like the sound of it. His legs ached, his back, his arms, everything hurt, and his breath was coming in hard, fast pants, and there was no where to go. DJ's arms were around his neck, clinging hard, cutting into his skin, choking off his breath. Little fingers tugged on Phil's shirt, and he brought a hand up to cover them.

They were talking, all of them were talking, and Phil could hear their words and he wasn't really paying attention. Because they clearly thought he was trapped, that this was it, and they could ignore him. He glanced over his shoulder, down, down into the lobby, where the massive fountain was splashing away. 

It was deep. Deep enough.

"DJ," he whispered, his lips barely moving with it, "can you swim?"

Against his head, he felt DJ nod. The boy shifted on his back, clearly figuring out what Phil was planning, and he giggled. Another nod, more enthusiastic.

Phil took a deep breath. "Hold on tight," he said, and before any of the people with guns could figure out what he was doing, he'd locked a hand around the bannister and pulled himself up, setting his feet on top.

And just like that, he was a threat again.

The whole building exploded into movement, into chaos, guns pointed and people yelling and it was a wave of noise and pressure and Phil couldn't breathe, he couldn't. He glanced down at the water, two, three floors below them, and sucked in a breath. He was dizzy, vertigo tugging on him, dragging him towards the water.

“Dummy!”

The boy scrambled against Phil's back, making himself small, trying to hide, trying to disappear. Phil felt DJ's breath against the nape of his neck, and for a second, Phil thought he was crying. Then the soft sound of his giggles reached Phil's ears. Confused, he paused, his fingers clinging hard to the bannister.

The dark haired man that plowed through the crowd was furious. His face was twisted, his mouth a thin line within the confines of his dark goatee. His eyes were brilliant, and Phil thought he was going to walk right up to them. One of the guards grabbed the man by the shoulder, forcing him to a stop. 

“I don't know who you are,” the man said, and his voice was shaking with rage, rage and something else, something darker and heavier, something like violence or vengeance. “I don't care. But if there is so much as a scratch on that boy, I will personally make you regret it.” 

Phil swallowed, but he didn't move. “He's fine,” he said, and his voice didn't shake; he was proud of that. “Let us go, and he'll stay fine.”

“You are not taking him out of this fucking building, there is no way that is happening,” the man said. “Dummy?” He never looked away from Phil, never broke eye contact, but his voice was gentler now. “Are you okay, brat?”

Dummy peeked over Phil's shoulder, then ducked back. He was still giggling.

“Yeah, you are grounded until you are thirty, or until I'm dead, whichever is longer,” the man gritted out, but some of the tension in his shoulders was gone. People were backing up now, the guards and the people in business suits pulling back, and Phil got the feeling that they were following orders somehow, leaving the dark haired man to face Phil alone. A quick glance down at the lobby was enough to see that the people were being cleared from there, too, a general evacuation in effect.

“We're leaving,” Phil said, and he didn't know what was going on, he didn't know and he didn't care. He glanced down at the fountain again. “It's up to you HOW we're leaving, but we are leaving. You can't keep us here-”

"Ochre moon!"

Phil's head jerked around, his breath leaving him in a sob. The man wasn't anyone he knew, but that was okay, that was fine, that was what the codeword was for. He was compact and broad in the shoulders, with sharp eyes and dressed in battered black tactical gear that left his arms exposed. Pretty stupid design, really, Phil thought idly. Who left that much skin showing on a soldier?

"Who're you?" Phil asked, and his voice shook. Just a little, but he gritted his teeth. "Who sent you?"

The man's head tipped to the side. "Phil?"

The dark haired man turned so fast that he should've gotten whiplash. "Phil, what Phil, who Phil?"

But the soldier didn't even look in his direction. "You are Philip J. Coulson." He took one step forward, big boots soundless on the marble. "If you're Phil, you know exactly what ochre moon means. It means your mother sent me, she can't come herself, not right now, but she sent me to take care of you. It's okay. No one's going to hurt you. No one's going to hurt DJ either, right, Deej?"

DJ buried his face in the back of Phil's neck. Phil's arm shook, where he was clinging to the bannister. "He was locked up," he said, and that still pissed him off. "He was locked up, and he didn't have any shoes and he was crying."

"He was locked up," the dark haired man said, his voice sharp, "because his baby sitter was offline and we were off dealing with the cause of that and when he gets loose in the Tower then he can hurt himself if Jarvis isn't watching him. Because he's small, and he's not used to being small, or fragile, or bruising quite so easy." He was pale, and his voice was shaking. “And if you can keep shoes on him for more than five minutes, you can have that damn job, because I've been trying and nope, not a chance, you have no idea how many shoes he's destroyed, you have absolutely no idea, there is a shoe graveyard somewhere in this building and Jarvis will not tell me were it is because no one is on my goddamn side anymore.”

Phil measured him, a quick glance. The man was angry, that was clear, but the anger was fueled by something else, something deeper. Fear. He was afraid, and he was staring at DJ, his hands flexing at his sides. 

"Give me my kid back," the man said, and Phil frowned.

"No. Not if you're going to hurt him."

"We're not going to hurt him," the soldier said, his voice soft and coaxing. "I'm Clint. He's Tony. And we're not going to hurt DJ, we'd never hurt him. But if you jump and you don't hit right, you could hurt him. You know that."

"Only if I miss." Phil gave him a tight lipped smile. "I'm not going to miss."

The soldier snorted out a laugh. "Wow, that's Phil, all right."

“Yeah, well, I don't much give a damn,” the black-haired man said. “He's got about thirty seconds to put my kid down before I-”

“Not helping, Tony,” the soldier said from between clenched teeth. “He's a kid, and you're scaring him.”

“No, he's making me angry,” Phil said. “I don't like people who hurt little kids.”

“And I don't like people who kidnap my kid,” Tony snapped back.

Phil glanced back over his shoulder, a quick flick of his head, his eyes. Trying to judge how far he had to jump, and what their chances were, if he could make it to the lobby. If he could make it to the fountain, even if they didn't make it to the door, there was a better chance of someone seeing them, maybe helping them. He took a breath. “Hold on, DJ,” he whispered, and DJ's arms obediently tightened on his neck.

"Don't!"

Phil froze. DJ froze. Everyone froze. And then, through the crowd, a figure so familiar and so impossible that Phil nearly lost his grip on the railing. For a moment, he bobbled, his fingers sliding over the wood, and then he was steady again. At least, his footing was stable.

Everything else was in free fall.

Because Captain America was walking through the crowd. Captain America. Stunned, Phil watched as the man pulled his cowl back from his face, blonde hair falling over his forehead. He was a picture perfect match for the Captain America from the film footage he'd seen, from the books, from the comics. The man walking towards him, towards them, big and broad and tall in that red, white and blue costume, was Captain America.

Or at least a cheap copy of him.

The rage that shot through Phil was so strong that he could barely breathe, could barely think. His throat closed up, the sensation of pain rolling through him, and he straightened up. For an instant, he was balanced, holding his ground.

“Go to hell,” he said, and the words were thin in the silence, thin and broken.

“Cap, Steve, no,” the soldier was saying, and he was already moving forward, one step, two, no one else was moving, but he was,he was lunging forward, and Phil just pushed himself back. He tipped backwards, his fingers releasing, his legs pushing off. DJ let out a shriek of laughter, and then they were both falling.

Phil heard someone screaming, a lot of screaming, a wall of sound that swallowed him, that drowned out the thud of his heartbeat in his ears, and Phil knew he should've been scared, but he wasn't. He caught himself grinning, even as they fell, even as they crashed down towards the basin of the fountain.

The arm that caught him around the waist caught him off guard and brought him up short in more than one way.

DJ shrieked happily in his ear, and Phil was struggling, kicking viciously and clawing at the arm that was wrapped solidly around his waist. “Don't.” The voice was cool and feminine, and he twisted around. The woman who had caught them in mid-fall was pretty and pale, her red hair a sweep of waves against her cheek. She gave Phil a slit-eyed look from beneath long lashes. “You are an idiot,” she said, even as they swung out over the lobby. With one arm, she held both boys, with the other, she held onto the wire that was still swinging them out over the room. They sped back towards the wall, and she caught their weight with her feet braced against the stone, light and assured.

Stung, Phil tried to kick her, but she just gave a little chuckle. Her head tipped back. “We're secure.”

Phil couldn't see who she was talking to, but almost before he could make sense of her words, they were moving upwards. In seconds, they were being pulled over the bannister, and Clint steadied the woman as DJ wiggled free, throwing himself into Tony's arms. Phil made a pained sound, and the woman's arm tightened. “Look at him,” she said, and her voice was gentle now. “He is not in danger here.”

Tony had gone to his knees, his arms tight around the little boy, his face buried in DJ's hair, his shoulders folded forward, his whole body folded forward. DJ was laughing, his fingers clutching at the fabric of Tony's shirt, at his hair. Crouched next to them, the Captain America imposter had a hand on Tony's back, his head down, his breathing rough.

And just like that, all the fight went out of Phil. Confused, frustrated, and suddenly so terrified that he felt his eyes burn with tears he refused to shed, Phil slumped in the woman's grip.

“Hey.” Clint's face swam in front of him, strangely out of focus. “It's okay. We're not going to hurt you, either. You're safe here.”

Phil sucked in a breath and it sounded like a sob. “Go to hell,” he said, the words watery.

Clint grinned. “Thatta boy, Phil.” His eyes darted up, and Phil barely had time to tense before he felt the pinch at his neck. Panicked, he struggled, but it was too late.

From a distance, he heard the woman's voice, echoing hollowly in his ears. “Do you really think it's Phil?”

“I've spent way more time looking at his family albums than you have. It's Phil.” Darkness closed in, and Phil whimpered. “It's okay, it's gonna be just fine, Phil. We've got you.”

Phil tried to say something to that, but the darkness was sweeping over him already. 

*

He opened his eyes and he had no idea where he was.

“It's okay. You're safe. Ochre moon, Phil.”

His head snapped to the side, and it took him a second to remember, he was scared and he was frustrated and it msut've showed on his face, because the man held up both his hands, waiting patiently for Phil to fully wake up.

“Do you remember me?” the man asked, and there was an oddly hopeful note to his voice. Phil studied him for a second, and then his mind cleared enough for him to recall the mess in the lobby.

“You're Clint,” he said, the words careful. “You were... Downstairs. You knew the codephrase.”

Something like disappointment flickered over the man's face, but it was gone so fast that Phil wasn't really sure he'd seen it at all. “Yeah,” Clint said with a smile. “Your mother told that one to me. And Jarvis is getting her on the phone right now, so you can talk to her, okay?”

And just like that, the phone next to the bed rang, making Phil jump. Clint stood up. “I'll wait outside, okay? While you're on the phone.”

Phil nodded. And picked up the receiver, not even waiting for the door to shut behind Clint before he grabbed for it. He couldn't take the risk that it would stop ringing, leaving him alone again. “Hello?” His voice shook, a little, and he swallowed hard.

“Hello, Phil?”

He clutched the phone with both hands, struggling not to cry. “Mom?” Her voice was a little tinny, a little odd, like the line wasn't so good, but he knew his mother's voice.

“What's the password?”

He ducked his head. “I still have all my toes,” he said, grinning.

She laughed. “And mine is, you know better than to go out in the rain alone.”

His breath left him in a shuddering rush, and he curled up. “Mom, where am I?” he whispered. “What's happening?”

“You're safe,” she said. “Something's happened, something we don't understand, not yet, but we'll figure it out. But I know everyone there, I trust them, and so does your father. We know Clint, and Tony, and Steve, Natasha, Bruce and Thor. They are our friends, and they will take care of you.”

“Are Jessie and Pam okay?” he asked.

“Your sisters are just fine, they are absolutely fine. So are your father and I.”

He let out a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. “I don't remember how I got here,” Phil said, hugging his knees to his chest. 

“We don't know how it happened, Phil, I wish I did. But you are there, and you are safe. Your father and I are trying to get down there, and hopefully we'll be there for you tomorrow. But I want you to trust me on this; that everyone there is your friend, they will take care of you, and they will not let anything bad happen to you.”

Phil buried his face in his knees, clutching the phone. “I'm scared,” he whispered.

There was a moment of pause. “I know. I'm sorry, baby. Can you stand it for a little while longer?”

He nodded, and then, because she couldn't see that, he said, “Yeah.” He tried not to say anything else, but he was shaking, just a little. “You're coming?”

“I'm coming,” she agreed. “And until then, you can trust these people. Do you understand me, Philip?”

He chewed on his lip. “There was a guy in a Captain America suit,” he said, and that still hurt, that was a hot rock of rage in the pit of his stomach.

His mother took an audible breath. “That is Steven Rogers,” she said. “He is Captain America.”

Phil's stomach bottomed out. “What.” It was a whisper, a bare thin breath of a word, but his mother heard him anyway.

“It's a secret,” she said. “I didn't know. But he is. Look at him. It is Steven Rogers. And he's still Captain America.”

“How is that possible,” Phil whispered. Nausea was pressing at his throat, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to keep his stomach in place. 

“I don't know. But I believe it's true.” She sighed. “I know it's true. He is Captain America.”

Phil wanted to cry. He wanted to beg his mother to come, now, to come and get him and bring him home and not make him stay here, with these people, with these strangers, with Captain America. Humiliation and fear crawled through him, and he bit down, hard, on his lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.

His blankets moved, and Phil's head snapped up.

DJ was peering over the edge of the bed, his dark eyes brilliant and full of laughter. As soon as Phil looked at him, he straightened up, grinning. “Hi,” Phil said to DJ, who took that as an invitation to pull himself up onto the bed. The boy flopped face down on Phil's bed, his arms and legs thrown out wide.

“Phil?”

“Sorry, Mom, it's DJ, he's-” Phil paused. “DJ, do you live here?”

The boy rolled over and nodded. 

Phil took a breath. “That guy, Tony, he's, he's your dad?”

Another nod, and a giggle. 

“Are you afraid of him?” Phil asked.

“Phil,” his mother said, but Phil ignored her, because DJ's smile had died. He sat up, folding his legs under him, and shook his head. Phil's eyes closed.

“It's okay, mom,” he said. “I'm okay.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” There was a smile in her voice. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Will you call me if that- If you can't?” he asked, his voice small.

“I will. And if you want to talk to me, just tell anyone there, and they will get me on the phone, understood?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He smiled a little. “I love you.”

“I love you, very much, and I'm very proud of you.”

Phil hung up the phone. He hated good-byes. Especially with his mom. 

DJ was waiting, and as soon as Phil's hands were empty, DJ started bouncing on the bed. Phil struggled with a feeling of frustration for a second, but it was fleeting, because DJ was laughing and that was hard to resist. Instead, he grabbed a pillow and smacked DJ in the side of the head. DJ stopped, blinking in an owlish manner, and then a grin broke over his face. He scrambled for a pillow, and retaliated.

“What are you-” Clint was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide. “DJ, are you kidding me right now?” Shaking his head, he stalked into the room. “How did you even get in here? Do not make me regret showing you how to go through the vents. 'Cause I kinda regret that.”

He moved forward and caught DJ in mid-bounce and DJ hit him in the face with the pillow. Clint put the boy under his arm, and DJ shrieked happily. “You okay?” Clint asked Phil, ignoring the struggling boy against his hip. “Your mom...” His voice trailed away, and he ran a hand over his short hair.

“Yeah, I'm better. Thanks. For getting her one the phone. She said I could trust you,” Phil said, his voice quiet. 

“You can. You're safe here, okay?” Clint smiled, and he seemed trustworthy, somehow, despite his battered and ratty gray t-shirt and his messy hair and the fact that DJ was burbling away in the crook of one of his elbows.

“Okay.” He dragged the blankets up, his hands fisted around the fabric in front of his mouth. “Mom... She said that's...” He swallowed. “Was that Captain America?” he asked, in a bare whisper.

Clint's lips twitched. “Yeah. It is. Don't worry. He's the nicest guy you'll ever meet.” He shifted his grip on DJ. “Why are you so heavy?” he asked the boy. DJ pulled a stapler from his pocket. “That's not-” DJ pulled another stapler out of his other pocket. “I know, but some kids don't like playing with staplers.” DJ gave him a horrified upside down look, his hair hanging down towards the ground. “Weird. I know,” Clint told him, and DJ nodded.

“Can you please not handle my child like he's a bag of dirty laundry?” Tony stood in the doorway, looking disgusted with the world at large.

“He brought staplers,” Clint said, handing DJ over.

“Of course he brought staplers, he likes staplers,” Tony said, unimpressed. “And he knows-” He stopped, and set DJ on his hip. “Give me that,” he said, taking the stapler. “You're grounded. No toys. Or food. Or affection of any sort.” DJ giggled and tried to staple his shirt hem. Tony stared down at him with an expression of dismay. “Disciplining you is an impossibility. I despair of raising you. I'm going to hire a large pack of wolves to do this, it'll be cheaper and I'll have more time to do things that aren't looking for your goddamn shoes.” He paused. “Probably get a tax write off if I can convince my accountants that the tower now counts as a nature preserve.”

DJ chewed on his tongue and stapled his shirt to itself.

“Stop freaking out the new kid,” Clint said, his head dipping in Phil's direction.

Tony glanced at Phil. “You want a toy, or something?” he asked, holding up the stapler he'd taken away from DJ.

“A stapler counts as a toy?” Phil said, trying to ignore the way his stomach was rolling. 

“Around here, if it stays still for more than thirty seconds and isn't immediately fatal, and Cap doesn't catch us playing with it, it's a toy,” Tony said, grinning, and he shouldn't have been comforting, but he was. Mostly because DJ was leaning against him, utterly unconcerned by the rattle of words that rained down on him. Tony's chin brushed against DJ's hair, and DJ grinned as he clunked along with his stapler.

“Can we not let him do that?”

Phil stared, caught somewhere between horror and adoration, as the familiar blonde man appeared in the doorway. One dark eyebrow arched as DJ waved the stapler at him. He was still dressed in the outfit, and it wasn't right, it wasn't exactly right, it wasn't like the books Phil had, or the old film footage or the photos. 

But it was Captain America's uniform, and the man in it was Captain America. Captain Steven Rogers.

Phil clamped his teeth shut to keep from throwing up.

“What?” Tony was asking, even as DJ wiggled in his grip. “What is that face for? You're making a face.”

Rogers' lips twitched. “I'm not making a face,” he said, his voice calm and amused. He held his hands out, and DJ launched himself at him. He caught the boy in mid-air, lifting him up over his head. 

“That, right there, that is a face, that is a judging face, and I'm not-”

“Guys,” Clint said, and everyone looked at Phil, who desperately looked for way out of this. A hole or a poison pill or something, anything.

“I'm sorry,” he gritted out, and all three of them paused. “I don't-” His eyes burned, and he ducked his head. “I mean, I didn't-” He could feel the tears, pressing on his eyelids, and he buried his face in his hands.

He heard people moving, soft voices, and footsteps retreating, and he was glad, they were leaving, they were leaving him alone, and humiliation was a hot ember in the pit of his stomach. He wanted his mother, so much that it was a physical thing, he wanted his mother and his father and his comfortable, familiar room. But at least they were leaving him alone, before he humiliated himself any more.

“May I have a seat?”

His head jerked up. The room was empty, except for Steve Rogers. “I'm sorry,” he choked out. “I'm so sorry. I didn't, I didn't mean to-” His face crumbled. “You must hate me,” he whispered, the words thin.

Rogers' lips parted. “No,” he said. “I don't hate you.” His brows drawing up tight, he rested his fingers on the back of the chair. “May I sit down, Phil?”

Phil nodded, and Rogers took a seat. “Thank you,” he said, with a faint smile. “I'm Steve Rogers. We didn't get a chance to meet, before.” He held out a hand, his palm big and broad and Phil took it, his heart pounding. His grip was firm, and warm. 

“Phil,” Phil whispered. “Phil Coulson.”

Steve's smile stretched. “How are you feeling, Phil?” Phil shrugged, and Steve nodded. “You talked to your mom?”

“Yes,” Phil said. “She's coming. Tomorrow, hopefully.”

“I'm glad.” Steve took a deep breath. “I'm sorry you woke up alone. We're not sure how that happened. But it must've been terrifying, to wake up and not know where you were, or how you got here, to have no one to help you. And then to find DJ.”

“I thought he was-” Phil's shoulders slumped. “I'm stupid.”

“You're not stupid. You thought he was in trouble. You thought he needed help. You were wrong, but you had good reason to be wrong.”

Phil kept his head down, his thin fingers digging into the blankets. 

There was a moment of silence. “You did something very brave,” Steve said, and Phil's head snapped up. Steve was smiling, just a little, and his eyes were clear and kind. “You found a child, someone smaller and more helpless than you, and you thought he was in danger. Even though you didn't know him, and you didn't have any reason to risk your life for him, you tried to save him.

“That was incredibly brave.” Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Thank you for doing that. For doing your best to help someone who you thought needed help.” He paused, and his smile got bigger. “Don't do it again, that was very dangerous, but I am very proud to have met you, and I'll always be grateful that you tried to save him.”

Phil felt his tears overflow, and he squeezed his eyes shut, and then, when that didn't stop it, he brought his arms up, covering his face with them. Hating himself for being a baby, he curled into a ball and wished that Captain America would go away and pretend that Phil wasn't crying.

Instead, a gentle hand touched his hair. Phil turned his face away, crying out loud now, raw little choked off sobs, and he hated himself. “Hey,” Steve said, and his voice wasn't disgusted or annoyed or disappointed. Phil peeked at him from behind the cover of his curled up fists, and Steve was still smiling. “Can I have a hug?”

There was a beat of stillness, and then Phil threw himself forward. Steve caught him, wrapping his arms around Phil and pulling him in close. He was warm and solid and Phil buried his face in Steve's shoulder, sobbing so hard that he shook with it. And Steve never said a thing, he just hugged Phil tight and let him cry until he the tears slowly tapered away. Then, and only then, did Steve pull back, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handing it over. Phil, red faced and shaking, mopped at his face and blew his nose.

“Sorry,” he said, and his voice shook.

Steve handed him a cup of water. “You don't ever have to apologize for crying,” he said, with that same faint smile. “Everyone cries.”

Phil considered that as he sipped the water. “Even you?” he asked from behind the cup.

“Even me,” Steve agreed.. His lips twitched up. “Especially me.” He reached out with one hand and pushed Phil's hair away from his forehead. “Every soldier cries, every man cries, every person cries, and if you need to cry, there's probably a reason.”

There was an odd scraping sound from the door, and Steve glanced over. “You're supposed to ask before you touch other people's things, aren't you?” he asked, but he was smiling. Phil peeked over, and nearly choked on his water.

DJ had Captain America's shield.

He was dragging the shield behind him on the floor, paint side down, the edge banging on the doorframe as he came in. He looked at Steve, and his face worked. Then, quietly, carefully, he said, “Please?”

“Thank you for asking,” Steve said, and DJ gave him a gap tooted grin. “Be careful,” he cautioned, as DJ pulled the shield around in front of him, bouncing it across the floor. Phil watched, horrified, as DJ was anything but careful with it. Steve sighed. “Don't hurt yourself, kiddo.”

DJ made a face, and heaved the shield up onto the bed. Phil recoiled, his heart pounding.

“Oh, did you bring it to show Phil? That was nice of you.” Steve leaned forward in his chair and helped DJ get the shield onto the bed. Beaming, DJ scrambled into Steve's lap. Leaning comfortably against Steve's chest, he grinned at Phil.

Phil stared at the shield. “Thank you,” he said, his voice tight. He reached out, and his hand was shaking when he touched the shining surface. It was cool to the touch, but the metal absorbed the heat of his fingers almost instantly. He smoothed a hand over the star. Next to the bed, DJ yawned and shifted in Steve's arms. “He's yours, isn't he?” Phil asked him.

Steve smiled. “He's Tony's son. But I like to think I'm one of his favorite uncles.” Under his chin, DJ gave him a look that was clearly adoring. “We all love him. Very much.”

“Is that why you let him play with this?” Phil asked, his voice quiet.

“I let him play with it because he likes playing with it, and he can't do it any harm,” Steve said. He caught DJ's hand without even looking. “You can play with it, too, if you want to.”

Phil frowned. “That's disrespectful,” he said, his eyebrows pulling down. “It isn't a toy. It's a-”

He trailed away, and Steve nodded, just a little. “A what?” he asked. “A weapon? A relic? It's a tool, that's all.” He too a deep breath. “It's saved my life, it's saved a lot of people's lives. But you know what I want, more than anything?” Phil shook his head, his fingers still stroking over the surface of the shield. Steve rocked back in his chair, and DJ pushed closer. “I want, someday, for DJ to have kids of his own. To meet a girl he loves, who loves him, and they have kids. Or maybe-” He leaned back, meeting DJ's eyes. “He'll meet a boy he loves, who loves him, and they'll adopt a kid who needs them, who needs them very much. Or maybe he'll just be someone's favorite uncle, or that crazy old man in the neighborhood, right?” DJ, giggling, nodded. “Okay. So someday, you'll have a little kid who loves you best,” Steve told DJ, “and that kid will only know that shield as a plaything. As something that was grandpa's, or great-grandfather's, and is now theirs.”

He looked up, met Phil's eyes dead on. “I don't want that to be a weapon. Or even a shield against weapons. If I had a choice, Phil, that would be a toy. A plaything for DJ.” He stood, shifting DJ into his arms. “We're not there, not yet. But that shield should be a toy, from time to time. Playing would do it good.” He looked at DJ. “Yeah?”

DJ held up a hand, and Steve tapped his palm against it. “High five.” He set DJ down on the ground, and DJ immediately shot over to the edge of the bed. “Do you want to play with him?” Steve asked, tucking his hands in his pockets. “You don't have to, if you don't want to. But if you feel up to it-”

Phil lifted the shield off the bed, and it wasn't as heavy as he'd always thought it would be. “Can I?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Steve nodded, smiling. “Just tell us if you don't feel good, okay? Or if you need a break.”

“Okay.” Phil wiggled out of the bed, still clinging to the shield. Cautiously, he slid his arm through the leather straps and gripped it tight. He looked up at Steve, who smiled down at him. “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Phil.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild triggers for the fear of a child, alone and uncomfortable. Don't worry, he'll be just fine.

“Wow.”

DJ nodded, grinning like a loon.

“Wow,” Phil repeated, his head tipping back. DJ did the same, his hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking proud.

Phil cleared his throat. “Wow.”

DJ giggled, and grabbed his hand, towing him forward. Phil stumbled along in his wake, just staring at everything. The 'playroom,' as Steve had termed it, was a space unlike any he'd ever seen, expansive and broad, open and filled with light. 

The floor was a sweep of polished wood and metal, bits of candy colored carpet in odd corners, beneath the edges of bookcases and staircases and stacks of huge, multi-colored blocks. The walls were painted with massive murals, stretching up in all directions. There were fantastic cityscapes, star systems, and views of worlds that were nothing like Earth. There were paintings of New York, of the ocean and the sky, of the cool drip of ice covered trees and the bright explosion of flowers over the surface of a grassy field. 

Here and there, in all of them, were men and women, some of them familiar to Phil now. The red headed woman peering out from under a snow laden branch, wrapped in fur as white as the snow that surrounded her. A massive blond man in gleaming armor and a crimson cape standing on the parapet of a fantastical tower, looking out over a glowing sweep of rainbow colored light. The dark haired man, Tony, crouching in front of a silly looking robot in a futuristic space. Captain America standing straight and tall on the edge of a New York skyscraper, his shield gleaming in one hand. 

There were tables and bookshelves in brightly painted wood and metal, tucked into alcoves and beneath stairs, and a set of beanbag chairs shaped like giant pieces of fruit. There were huge piles of cushions, and clusters of poles with swathes of fabric draping over them to form a massive tent. There were stacks of books everywhere, and a corner filled with easels and paper, rimmed with racks of pots of paint and jars of brushes. There were workbenches covered with metal and wire and glass, sheets of paper tacked to massive cork boards. Blueprints and technical schematics were open everywhere, lying on the benches and tossed aside on the floor.

In the rear of the room, there was a complicated looking pile of brightly colored boxes and tubes, slides and ladders that hooked together, forming a rollicking playground. There were spaces to climb and hop and build and hide, and a jungle gym unlike any that Phil had ever seen, with gleaming circles of glass and brightly painted ladders. 

And in the center of the room, dwarfing everything else, was a massive fixture, like a tree, or a sculpture of a tree. There were stairs imbedded into it at the bottom, and higher, he could see ladders secured to the trunk, leading to a dozen different spaces above them. Phil could see broad bridges of rope and wood that stretched between the branches. There were swings and hammocks and a huge net filled with blankets and pillows. 

“Wow,” Phil repeated, and DJ laughed. Grabbing Phil's hand, DJ pulled him towards the tree. Phil held back, for a second, for a little more, because he'd never seen anything like this, and he wasn't sure he trusted it. But DJ shot up, his bare feet finding easy purchase on the twisted staircase. A moment later, Phil followed him.

“This is amazing,” Phil said, and had to suppress a shriek as DJ suddenly swung back into view, upside down and grinning. Before he could do more than grab at the tree for a handhold, DJ went back up, laughing. “MONKEY BOY!” Phil yelled after him, making DJ laugh harder. “What are you doing?”

DJ jumped back down, swinging onto the steps directly in front of Phil, a pair of very real looking swords in his hands. Even as Phil recoiled, grabbing for a railing that he hadn't even been aware was there before he needed it, DJ flipped one up, catching it by the blade and offering the hilt to Phil. Cautious, but with a dawning grin, Phil took it.

It was light and flexible, and the blade had no edge. It looked like metal. But it felt like, well, like a stuffed toy. Phil ran his fingers over the gleaming edge, amazed, and while he was distracted, DJ smacked him over the head. “Oh, that's it,” Phil said, and he brought his sword up, slashing at DJ, who scrambled backwards, up and out of reach.

And just like that, they were running, jumping, crashing along the length and breadth of the mad jungle gym. Swords bumped with each step, DJ parrying Phil's awkward strikes easily, laughing as he did it. For a while, Phil was afraid of falling, but it never seemed to happen, wherever he put his foot down, there was something there to brace him, it was a magic he'd never understand, and so he just stopped trying to figure it out. He just started believing he could fly.

Until he fell.

He caught sight of DJ's face as his feet slipped free of the stair, as he grabbed for something, anything, the sword tumbling free of his grip as he fell. DJ was smiling, laughing, and Phil almost screamed, wanted to scream, because it was a long way down, a long way to that metal floor.

And then he was bouncing.

An instant later, DJ landed next to him, bouncing with ease across the invisible spider-web of a net. As Phil struggled to catch his breath, DJ pressed the tip of his sword to Phil's throat. It took Phil far too long to draw enough breath to laugh. “Okay, okay, I give. You win!” When DJ leaned back, grinning, Phil fumbled for his sword. “This time.”

Grinning, DJ rolled back towards the main body of the tree, Phil right on his heels, ready for another fight.

What seemed like a long time later, Phil took a seat on the edge of the bridge, his legs hanging out over nothing. DJ collapsed next to him, his face flushed, his hair standing on end. “Do you know me? You do, don't you?” Phil asked, and DJ nodded. “That's why you went with me. Why you left. Why you came with me, it's because you know me.”

DJ rested his arms on the rope railing, a faint smile on his face. 

“We've done... We've done this before. Haven't we?” Phil asked, even though he knew the answer before DJ nodded. “I don't know you,” Phil told him, and DJ frowned. “I don't remember you. Why do you know me, and I don't know you?”

DJ's head tipped to the side, and he pointed at the wall. Phil looked up, his gaze following DJ's finger. The scene was a cityscape, with people of all sizes and shapes and colors. There was a sense of movement to the scene, of a city in motion, never stopping, never even slowing down, and all of them contained by the lines made up of the buildings and the streets.

“Phil,” DJ said, and Phil looked at him. But DJ was still pointing at the wall, at the painting. Phil frowned at the picture.

There, almost in the center of the image, was a man in a black suit. Everyone else was moving. Everyone else was moving through the city. Except this man. He was staring directly out of the picture, a faint, amused smile on his face, as if he knew the two boys were there, watching him, but he'd seen them first. Everyone else was contained by the city, but this man was part of it, fading into the shadows.

Phil looked at DJ, who grinned. “Phil,” he said, still pointing.

“I don't understand,” Phil admitted, and DJ scrambled up, setting the rope bridge to bouncing. He grabbed Phil's arm and dragged him up. “What- Where are we going?” Phil asked, even as DJ dragged him down towards the ground.

DJ gave him a grin, and that was all the answer he got.

*

“I need to not have a tower full of children,” Tony said, the words strained. His eyes cut around the room. “If any of the rest of you decide to pull this crap, I will personally have you evicted. One. One child is enough. Almost too much. One child is a lot. I like the one we have. I think that's enough.” 

Doctor Stephen Strange gave him a look. “I imagine so.” He had his hands up and to his sides as he walked through the workshop. Light leaked from his fingers, a faint glow that swirled through the air around him as he moved. “How is he?”

“You mean, other than nine fucking years old?” Clint asked. He folded his arms over his chest, leaning his shoulders back against the wall. “Wonderful.”

Strange glanced in his direction, his dark eyes fathomless. “Yes,” he said, his voice soothing. “How is he, even though he is currently nine years old?”

“He's healthy,” Bruce said. “I didn't do a full physical, but I managed a quick check while he was still unconscious. His vitals are good, his brain activity is normal.” He crossed his arms, and uncrossed them again almost immediately, shifting his weight. “As normal as he's like to be, all things considered.”

“He's unaware of his, well, pervious life?” Strange asked. He paused in front of the door to the storage area. He tapped a finger against the panel. 

“You mean, his actual life?” Clint said, his voice a bit sharper than he intended. Natasha gave him a look out of the corner of her eyes, but she said nothing. She just shifted, just an inch or two, until her shoulder was brushing up against his. Clint wanted to resent it, wanted to be angry about it, but the barest touch was enough to take the fight out of him. He took a breath, and another. 

“He doesn't seem to know us, or where he is, or what he's doing here,” Steve said, as Strange pushed the door to the storage area open. “It seems safe to say that he doesn't just look like a child, he is a child.” One hand came up, rubbing idly at a spot on his shoulder. “He's just a little kid, and he's scared.”

He had been. He had been, and when he'd finally broken down and sobbed, it had been Steve who'd stayed with him. Clint had stood outside, listening to Phil Coulson cry, and that had hurt more than he ever could've imagined. 

“I imagine so.” Strange crouched down in front of the tool cabinet where they kept DJ's extra clothes. There was clothing tossed everywhere, and Strange pushed things out of the way, frowning as he picked through the piles.

“So, any chance you can tell us what the fuck is going on here?” Tony asked. “How the hell did we end up with twice as many kids as we're supposed to have?” His face was tense. “Is this our mystery spellcaster?”

“No, actually, I think this is all-” Strange stood up, a t-shirt hanging from the end of one crooked finger. “Because of this.” He glanced at Clint. “Yours, I presume?”

Clint blinked at it; he owned a lot of archery pun shirts. Most of them had been given to him by either Nat of Phil, but this one was courtesy of Phil's niece, who shared his love of Walking Dead. Clint wasn't quite so enthusiastic about Daryl, but Mary Margaret blithely ignored his objections on that front. “Yes?”

“Then Agent Coulson has learned the dangers of borrowing clothes that do not belong to him. Sometimes you pick up some nasty little surprises when you do.” Strange walked out into the workshop, and tossed it onto the workbench. 

“Oh, please, can we not? Can we not contaminate my workshop with your, your-” Tony waved a hand at Strange and the shirt. “Your youness?”

Strange chuckled. “Don't worry, the natural state of this workshop will prevent anything from taking root. I'm quite certain of that.” He waved a hand over the shirt, and it smoothed flat under the gesture, the fabric rippling as if a physical force was being exerted on it. “I'm actually quite surprised that anything manages to survive here.”

“Look, there-”

“The shirt?” Clint asked, resisting the urge to punch someone or something. Probably Tony. In his pocket, his fingers closed around the folded scrap of paper. It crumbled in his grip.

Strange gave him a faint smile. “The shirt,” he agreed. His fingers moved in an intricate pattern in mid-air, his smile melting away as a flicker of light curled up from the fabric. It sparked pink, and Strange's eyebrows arched. “Ah. That would explain it.” 

“What would explain it?” Bruce asked. He shoved his glasses onto his nose and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed behind the lenses. His shoulders hunched as he studied the swirl of magical energy. It crackled in the air, and Bruce jerked back.

Strange's fingers snapped out, closing over the spark. Light leaked out from between his tightly fisted fingers, illuminating the bones through his skin. “Ah,” he said, his eyebrows arching. “I don't think we need any more of that.”

“That is a familiar sort of magic,” Thor said, his voice soft. “An energy that bends all in its wake, is it not?”

“Everything,” Strange agreed. “Even the very fabric of reality.”

“Want to let the rest of us in on the joke?” Natasha asked. She leaned against Clint's shoulder, pressing against him, holding him in place.

“I remember this shirt, as it happens,” Strange said, looking at Clint. “You were wearing it a few weeks ago, were you not? That middle of the night attack?”

“I don't think we should call that an attack,” Clint said. As evidenced by the fact that he hadn't even bothered to put on his damn uniform. They were lucky he'd gotten out of bed for Namor's latest hissy fit. “I don't think it counts.”

“Likely not, but you did wear this.” 

“Yeah, I don't see-”

“Scarlet Witch,” Natasha said, and Clint's stomach bottomed out.

“Wanda? WANDA did this?” he asked, and he was surprised how much that concept hurt. He'd played a practical joke or two in his time, but this seemed rather cruel, especially for Wanda. Clint stared at the shirt, his stomach churning. He swallowed against the urge to say something he'd regret later. 

“You do spend a lot of time teasing her,” Bruce pointed out.

“Yeah, but this is kind of an overreaction, don't you think?” Clint said. He looked at Strange. “Then this is my fault. It's my fault Phil's-”

Strange shook his head, still studying the flickers of energy. “No, this is no one's fault. If blame must be laid, it would be on Wanda, or perhaps on Agatha, since the young lady is still struggling to control her powers,” he said, with a faint smile. “But I believe this was a mistake. I believe she lost her temper with you, and your teasing, and said something she shouldn't have. Likely about your maturity level.”

“A bit more obscene, but-” Clint shrugged, his shoulders twitching up and down. “That's about the extent of it, yeah.”

“Childish, but she is a child,” Stephen said. 

“It's fine, so's Clint,” Tony said, and Clint flipped him off without even looking in his direction.

Strange's lips twitched. “If you were the one to wear it, I believe the hex that tangled with your shirt would have changed your form, but not your mind. You would've ended up as a child, but you would have kept all of your memories, and your awareness of the situation.”

He glanced up. “In other words, I believe the spell would given you a body to match your supposed youthful intellect.”

“Except the spell hit the wrong target,” Bruce said. He shifted his weight, his arms crossed over his chest. There was an expression of focused curiosity on his face. 

“Yes. Which might explain why it went wrong. Why Phil ended up as a child both in body and mind. Chaos at it's best, I fear, is what Wanda does.” Strange pulled his hand away, and the light disappeared. “Or it's worse. I suppose it depends on your perspective.”

“I think our perspective is that Agent Coulson is currently nine years old,” Steve said, his voice polite, but clipped. “He's coping with being in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar people, far better than we have any right to expect, Stephen, but Wanda's misspoken word does have consequences for him.”

Strange nodded. “Of course. I don't mean to make light of the situation. It is a difficult thing, both for him, and for all of you. But the spell is limited in power, and thus, duration. I suspect that he will be back to normal tomorrow morning.”

There was a moment of silence. “You are certain of this?” Thor asked, his head down, his arms folded over his chest. 

“Not certain, no, but there was no malicious intent here, no attack. It was a bit of misplaced magic, a word given form in a fit of bad temper. Like a bad mood, it should pass, quickly, and cause little more than hurt feelings.”

He picked up the shirt with a flick of his fingers. It took Clint a moment to realize that he wasn't actually touching the fabric. Instead, it floated a bare inch away from his fingers. “That being said, I think it best that I take this, and make certain that the magic does not linger.”

“Take it,” Clint said. “Really. Don't want to see it again, at this rate.”

“I can imagine.” 

“So that's it? Just... Wait for tomorrow?” Tony asked. “Why do we bother calling you?”

“Reassurance, I assume,” Strange said. “At this point, the spell is already fading. Interfering with it would have little benefit, and might well make things worse.” He glanced at Steve. “Let him sleep tonight, and call me if he hasn't returned to normal tomorrow. At that point, I'll see what I can do. But at this point, as difficult as you might find it, it is better to simply let matters run their course.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you. Is there anything we should watch out for?”

He tried to pay attention to the rest of the conversation, but, out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw movement, an immediate distraction. He tipped his head forward, looking without making it obvious. Light shifted along the edge of the vent, and he shifted, his elbow bouncing against Natasha's. She nodded, without even looking in his direction, and Clint struggled to keep the smile off of his face.

Natasha's eyebrow arched. “Stark is going to have you killed for teaching him how to navigate those vents,” she said, the words almost inaudible, even as close as he was. 

Clint shrugged. “Dunno,” he said, just as quiet. “Seems to me that if nothing else? This little mess proved that my lessons are exactly what DJ needed.”

“Oh, I do want to be around when you tell Stark that,” Natasha said.

“I think I'll just wait and let Phil tell him.” Clint took a deep breath. “He'll be back tomorrow.”

She nodded. “What'd we learn from this?”

“Don't tease a teenage girl who can kill me with her brain.”

“Whatta you know, lessons being learned all over the place.”

*

“Dinner time, short persons!”

Phil looked up from the massive jigsaw puzzle that he and DJ were working on. It was a fantastic thing, with hundreds of pieces, and he wasn't sure how DJ had coaxed him into helping with it. But they'd made a lot of progress, the huge pile of pieces spread out and sorted by color and shape. They'd even managed to assemble a good portion of the interior, but Phil realized he had no idea how long they'd been working at it.

Judging by the way that his stomach growled when he caught the scent of the bowls on Tony's tray, it had been a while.

DJ rolled over onto his back, his folded up legs going with him. His hands went up in the air, and his fingers made grabby motions in mid-air. Tony rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, bracing his tray on one hip. “Sit up like a civilized person, you monkey.”

Whining, DJ rolled back into a sitting position, his hands still out. He gave Tony a pleading look. Tony ruffled his hair with one battered hand. “He needs to eat. You okay with him taking a break?” he asked Phil.

“Sure,” Phil said, and DJ grinned at him. He bounced up and grabbed Phil's sleeve, tugging him towards the child sized table at the base of the tree.

Tony held out the bowl after DJ had settled into his seat. “Do we remember how to chew today?” he asked. DJ nodded, and Tony laughed. He handed it over, and DJ curled himself around the bowl of stew, fragrant with garlic and onion and filled with chunks of carrots and potato. Tony looked at Phil. “You hungry? Do you want something to eat?” he asked, giving Phil a faint smile.

Phil glanced at DJ, who looked up from his bowl and gave Phil an enthusiastic nod. There was stew on both of his cheeks and maybe some in his hair. Tony didn't seem to care, and DJ definitely didn't. “Yes, please,” Phil said, trying to ignore how his stomach ached. If Tony noticed, he didn't say anything, he just handed the other bowl to Phil. Phil took it with a murmured thank you. Tony nodded and put a glass of milk in front of each of them.

“There is bread, as well.”

The man in the doorway was huge. He would've been scary, if not for his wide grin, the basket of sliced bread in his hand, and the fact that he was wearing a pink apron. He held out the steaming basket. “Should you care for a piece, that is.”

DJ was up and running almost before he could finish the words. He got all the way up to his feet, going full tilt, and before he managed more than two steps, he crashed back to the ground. He hit hard, his body slamming into the wood. Before Phil could do more than make a pained sound of sympathy, DJ was scrambling back up. 

“He... Does that a lot,” Tony said, and he was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. He glanced at Phil. “No one here hurts him. He just moves a little faster than he should.”

Phil nodded, digging his spoon into his stew. “My sister Jessie's the same way,” he said, taking a huge bite. It was warm and comforting, in the way that food should be, and he dug in.

Tony scratched his jaw. He looked tired. “Yeah? Any hints as to how to keep him for knocking his own teeth out?”

“Carrying her everywhere works pretty good for me,” Phil admitted, and Tony laughed. Some bit of strain that Phil hadn't realized that he was still carrying bled out of him. 

“Do not,” the blonde man said, trying to sound stern, even as DJ threw himself up, grabbing for the bread. The man grinned at his rather inept attempts “Have you no manners?” He scooped DJ up with one massive arm, laughing as the boy tried to reach across his chest for the bread.

“You know he doesn't.” Tony straightened up. “DJ. Enough.” DJ stopped, his eyes going towards Tony. He grinned, and pointed at Phil. Tony's lips twitched. “Oh, you were just getting some for Phil? No one believes you. You are a carb monster.”

“He has a healthy appetite, something to be celebrated and encouraged.” The huge blonde man lowered DJ back to the ground and handed him two pieces of bread. “He also has a very kind heart, does he not?” he asked Phil.

Phil nodded, and took the piece of bread that DJ offered him. It was still warm. “Thank you.”

“This is Thor,” Tony said, hooking a thumb in the man's direction. “Thor, this is Phil.”

“Hi,” Phil said, looking up, way, way up. 

Thor offered him a big hand, and Phil took it, trying his best not to wince as those huge fingers closed around his hand. But the man's grip was controlled and gentle, his handshake firm. “May I join both of you?” he asked, and his eyes were warm and kind.

DJ was already back at his meal, but he nodded. Phil followed his lead, and Thor sank down, cross-legged beside them at the table. DJ pushed his bowl in Thor's direction, and Thor nodded. “Thank you.” He ripped a piece of bread in half and dipped it into DJ's bowl. “It is kind of you to share, but you need to eat the rest.”

DJ nodded, apparently satisfied with that. Phil's head tipped to the side. “Aren't you hungry?” he asked Thor.

“We already ate,” Tony said. “Figured we'd let you two play for a bit, the whole group in the kitchen can be-” he wobbled a hand in mid-air. “A little overwhelming.”

Thor was finishing his gravy soaked bread, and Phil leaned forward. “So why didn't you just tell him that?”

“He knows. But he offered it to be kind, and one does not reject an offering of food, especially not in the home of your host,” Thor said with a smile. “I would not dishonor him that way.”

Phil dug his spoon into his stew. “He's, what, four?”

“And still, despite his age, worthy of respect, is he not?” Thor stood. Almost as soon as he was at his full height, he leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Finish your meal, then perhaps we will have some time to play before bed.”

“He needs a bath,” Tony said, and DJ made a face. Tony hid his smile behind one hand. “After dinner, we'll play for an hour, then bath and bed.” DJ pointed at Phil, and Tony nodded. “Phil, too. We've got a guest bedroom set up for him. And no, he can't stay in your room, Deej.”

DJ pouted, and Phil managed a smile. “It's okay,” he told DJ. “I'll be fine on my own.”

But his stomach was churning a little when he went back to his meal.

*

Phil stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His face was familiar. Normal. He took a deep breath, and tried to remember who he should be. But the only face he could remember was the one that was in front of him, pink cheeked in the steamy air, with dark hair damp and sticking out in all directions.

The mirror was fogged up, the shower as hot as he could stand it, and he reached out to wipe it clean. But as he did, he realized that there was another handprint, already there. Phil stopped, his lips parting as he stared at it. And wondered if it was his. If he'd left it there yesterday, or the day before. For some reason, that felt right.

He reached out and lay his hand against the fogged up corner of the mirror, one hand there against the glass, right in the center of the handprint. His fingers were spread as wide as he could get them, and still, when he pulled his hand away, the print left behind was so small compared to the other one.

The small one looked right, no matter what anyone else said. He looked down at his palms, flexing his fingers, and wondered if he'd recognize his hands when he woke up in the morning. He tried not to be afraid, but the idea of his own hands being foreign, being unrecognizable, was terrifying.

He wondered if they'd call his mother, if he asked.

There was a light knock on the door. “Phil? You okay?”

Phil hopped down from the stool, heading for the door. The shirt and jersey shorts he was wearing was too big, and he thought he knew why they'd given them to him. He opened the door, looking up at Clint.

“I'm not supposed to be like this, am I?” he asked, point-blank, and Clint froze.

His mouth opened, and Phil's hands went to fists at his sides. “Don't lie to me,” he said. “I heard some of it. I heard... Enough.” His chin came up. “So tell me the truth. I'm not supposed to be like this, am I?”

Clint sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I'm not good at this shit, can't we just-”

Phil felt his eyes sting, and dug his teeth into his cheek. “Neither am I,” he said. “But I don't know what's going on, and I don't like that.”

“No. You don't.” Clint's eyes darted up, his jaw muscles pulling tight. “Look, want something to drink? I got cocoa.”

It seemed stupid, but Phil nodded anyway. “Yeah. Okay.”

He followed Clint through the halls, not really paying attention to where they were going, what doors they passed through. The kitchen that they ended up in was bigger than the first one he'd seen here, and he wondered how many rooms there were to this place, how big of a world that he'd ended up in.

He took a seat at the table, and the chair was too big, too hard. It was made of some weird metal, and he shifted, trying to find a comfortable way to sit as Clint pulled milk from the fridge and cocoa powder from one of the glistening cabinet doors. “Everything here looks like it's on a space ship,” Phil said. He wiggled on his seat again. “Or a submarine.”

“You get used to it.” Clint stopped, shook his head. “I mean, I have gotten used to it. It's-” He turned on the burner with a gesture that seemed a little too sharp. “It took me a while, though, so I can see why you might be a little, you know, weirded out by it. Tony takes 'modernism' to a whole new level.”

“Am I going to go back, back to normal, I mean?” Phil asked, his voice soft. He could hear the fear there, and he waited for Clint to feed him the lies that adults always pulled out at times like this. That everything was going to be all right, that he didn't need to worry, that everything would work out.

“I don't know,” Clint said. Phil's head jerked up, staring at him, and Clint gave him a lopsided smile over his shoulder. “Sorry.”

Phil shook his head. “No, I- Thanks.” His fingers picked at the fabric of the tablecloth. “I don't like being lied to,” he admitted. “It's lousy.”

“Yeah, it is,” Clint said. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You never-” He stopped, shook his head. “I don't know,” he said, and for a minute or so, he just stirred the liquid in his pan. After a few minutes of silence, he reaching for a mug. He poured the steaming liquid into the cup with a practiced hand.. “I don't know very much, actually, but smarter people than me think you'll be just fine tomorrow, okay?”

Phil's eyes retreated to the tablecloth, still worrying the fabric between his fingers, the ragged edge of his nail scraping against the threads. “What if I'm not?” he asked.

“Then your parents will come for you, and they will still love you,” Clint said, his voice rock steady. He set the cup down in front of Phil. “Your sisters will still love you. Your family does still love you, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil said, and he wasn't sure why, but he believed Clint. He reached for the cup, but he didn't take a drink, he just stared down at the dark surface of the liquid. The heat of the cup eased into his fingers, and he clung to that. “If I don't...” He paused. “If I'm still like this in the morning, will I ever see any of you again?” he whispered. “DJ? Or Tony and Thor? Or Steve or Natasha or Bruce?” He glanced up. “Or you?”

Clint took a seat, silent now. His head was down, his hands knotted together between his knees. He took a breath, and Phil watched his back rise, and fall, with it. When Clint looked up, his eyes were calm and there was a faint smile on his face. “I don't know what'll happen,” he said. “A big part of that will be up to your parents, Phil. But we're stubborn people, everyone here's a real pain in the a-” He stopped, shook his head. “We're a thorn in the side of a lot of people,” he said. “And we don't forget our friends.”

He stood up. “Tomorrow, you might not even remember this. But if you wake up and nothing's changed, I think you will grow up with Captain America firmly in your corner, okay?”

Phil chewed on his lower lip. “How about you?”

Clint glanced at him. “What about me?”

Phil frowned at him. “Will you be, you know, in my corner?”

That won him a quick smile. “Philip J. Coulson, I will always be in your corner.”

Phil drew his knees up, bracing his heels on the edge of his seat, and he ducked his head down. “You love me, don't you?” He looked up. “The adult me, I mean. The me I'm supposed to be.” Clint froze. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, and Phil leaned forward, his hands coming down hard on the table, the thump of his fists too soft for his liking. He repeated the gesture, frustrated. “Don't lie!” he said, and he wanted to be angry, but it came out as a plea. “Don't. That's not fair. I'm-” His eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut, struggling against the need to just breakdown like a baby.

“Yeah. I do.”

Phil's head jerked up. Clint was smiling at him, a lopsided little smile. “We all do, Phil, but I love you in a different way, but I guess you know that.” He shifted in his seat, leaning his folded arms on the edge of the table. “Don't you?”

Phil rubbed the back of his hand over his nose, trying not to sniffle. “Yeah.”

Clint's eyes slid away, his mouth tight. “You, I mean-” He sighed. “Sorry.”

“Captain America didn't know my code,” Phil said. “You did.”

Clint's smile was lopsided, and strained. “Yeah, well, you don't need it so much anymore. You don't have to-”

“I told you, didn't I?” Phil asked. 

Clint stilled. “Yes. You did.”

Phil took a deep breath. “I trust you.”

Clint chuckled, just a little, a soft little exhale of breath. “You didn't when you told me that,” he said, and his head fell forward. He rubbed a broad hand over the back of his neck. “You barely knew me.”

“If I told you that code, then I trusted you,” Phil told him. He paused. Reached for his mug again. “You made the stew today, didn't you?”

Clint stood up. “Yeah, I did. Recognized it, huh?”

“It's my mom's recipe.” Phil took a cautious sip of his cocoa. It was warm and sweet, creamy and rich against his tongue, and he swallowed it gratefully. “Mostly.”

“Your mom won't tell me the secret ingredient,” Clint said. He poured himself a cup of cocoa and leaned up against the counter, sipping it. “And neither would you.”

Phil grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Phil leaned back over his cup, both hands clinging to it. “It's winter squash.”

Clint stopped, cup halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“She cooks up a winter squash, cooks it up real good, and then mashes it and mixes it into the stew.” Phil took a long gulp of his cocoa, ignoring how it scorched his tongue. “Makes it a little sweeter and darkens up the gravy.” Clint was staring at him, his mouth gaping open just a little. Phil grinned. “Mom's tricky.”

“Yeah.” Clint grinned back. “Yes, she is.”

Phil shifted in his chair. “Clint?”

“Yeah?”

Phil glanced up. “Do I really live here?”

“You really live here,” Clint said, his lips twitching.

He considered that, allowed himself to believe it. “Why?”

Clint winced, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. His head tipped forward. “There were some, uh, incidents, I guess you can say, and the boss decided it was better if you were here to, well, you're kind of...” His voice trailed away, and he huffed out a sigh. “This is where we live, because it's safe, and because we want to, and because Tony's really lousy at being alone, so...” He turned to the sink and turned on the tap. He ran his cup under the flow of water, rolling it between his hands. “You kinda got stuck.”

Phil finished his cocoa. “I live with superheroes. That's really cool.” He lived with Captain America. He wasn't quite sure he believed that. But it was a nice lie, if it was a lie. He pushed his chair back and walked over to Clint's side. Clint reached for his empty cup, and Phil held it out of reach. “I can do it.”

Clint stepped aside. “Okay.”

Phil reached up for the dish soap. “Do I belong here?” 

He heard Clint crossing to the stove. “What do you mean, do you belong here?”

Phil concentrated on not dropping the slippery mug. “Never mind.” He shouldn't ask questions when he didn't want to know the answers. He knew better than that.

“Phil?”

He looked up, to find Clint smiling at him, that odd, lopsided smile that he'd started to recognize. “You are the most heroic person I've ever met,” Clint said.

Phil rolled his eyes, ignoring the way that his cheeks heated. “Now, I know that's a lie,” he grumbled. It was a kinda nice lie, though. A kind lie.”

Clint leaned against the counter just next to him. “You've saved the world. Or, you will.”

Phil's fingers slipped on the mug, and Clint snagged it before it could clatter into the sink. He barely noticed. “Really?”

Clint grinned. “Three times. That I know of.”

He considered that. “I think you're lying.”

“You think that a lot.” Clint's hand settled on Phil's head, and the way he ruffled Phil's hair was comforting and oddly familiar. “You're wrong about it a lot, too.”

Phil took a deep breath. “Does Natasha live here, too?”

“Yeah.”

“She's kinda terrifying.”

“You're right about that, not going to lie.” Clint reached for a dish towel, and Phil got to it first, handing it over. “Don't worry. You're her favorite.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you, Phillip?”

Phil thought about that. “Yes.”

“Not as often as you think.” Clint hooked a thumb towards the door. “Bedtime.”

He nodded. “Clint? If I'm... Still like this tomorrow? Will you call my mom?”

“I promise.”

*

Phil kept his eyes tightly closed, and tried not to feel the unfamiliar weight of this place pressing down on him. 

He could feel his eyes burning, and he didn't know why, because he absolutely was not going to cry. He was not. Going. To. Cry.

And when that ended up being a lie, too, he scrubbed at his cheeks with the heels of his hands until his cheeks were burning, but dry. Then he took a deep breath, and got out of bed. He was tired, exhausted, so exhausted that he felt sick, but he couldn't sleep. No matter how long he lay there, how much he tried, every time he thought he might be falling asleep, he'd end up bolt upright, his heart pounding, something like a sob or a scream caught in his throat.

In the bathroom, he washed his face, and ran a glass of water. He took his time drinking it, his feet cold on the bathroom tile. He ignored it, anything to avoid going back to bed. The too big, too strange bed that definitely was not his. 

Instead of returning to it, he picked his way across the carpet, making his way in the dim reflected light that spilled from the bathroom. He wished that there were windows, or any way to relieve the sensation of being trapped. He paused, considering the door. He glanced around, and immediately felt stupid. Still, he was breathing a little too hard, a little too fast, as he reached for the doorknob.

There was a soft beep, and Phil's fingers jerked away from the door.

"I am sorry to startle you, Philip, but you are not supposed to leave this room without supervision."

The voice came from nowhere, and Phil backed up, his mouth working. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jarvis. I am a security guard of sorts. There is a camera there by the door."

Phil's head tipped from one side to the other a little weirded out by that. He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean much in this place. "So you're... Talking to me over a speaker?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes. I keep watch over everything, and can control much of the building from here. However, the system was damaged when you first woke up today. That is why DJ was alone in the workshop. Usually I keep a close watch over him, but today, I could not."

Phil nodded. "Tony said his babysitter was... Offline."

"You have a very good memory. Especially considering how tense the situation was." There was a pause. "Thank you for taking care of DJ. He is very precious to all of us, and I'm sorry he was alone when you found him.”

“He didn't seem to mind.” Phil shifted, rubbing one cold foot against the other. “I mean, I thought he did, but it was...” He chewed on his lip. “It was just that he was frustrated, wasn't it? That's why he was crying.”

“He was crying because he usually gets his way when he cries,” Jarvis said, his tone dry. He was British, Phil realized, and there was something calming about his voice. Something kind, and in control. “He is, I fear, rather manipulative.”

Phil grinned. “He's little,” he pointed out. “He doesn't have many other tools, you know, he's gotta make the best of the ones he has.”

“And he does. Sir- His father has few defenses against such things, but most of the rest of us have learned when he's really upset, and when, as Clint would phrase it, he's just 'trying it on,'” Jarvis said. 

“Yeah, I can tell when my sisters are faking it, too,” Phil said. He reached for the door, but his fingers didn't quite touch the handle this time. “I'm not allowed to leave?” he asked.

“The building is large, and can be dangerous. We would prefer if you do not go wandering alone, for your own safety. Do you require something?”

“No, I just-” Phil's shoulders hunched. “I just can't sleep.”

There was only silence for a moment, then Jarvis asked, “Are you afraid?” 

His voice was kind, but Phil bristled anyway. “No,” he said. 

The silence stretched a little longer this time, and Phil crossed his arms over his chest, wrapping himself up tight. His eyes stung, and Phil kept his head down, because if he was going to start crying, he could do that alone. 

“Would you like to see DJ?”

Phil's head snapped up. “I-” He wasn't sure. But he didn't want to be alone any more, and DJ was the only one here who he understood. The others were nice, but they were adults, and he was sick of the secrets that they were pretending they weren't keeping. Phil took a deep breath. “He's probably asleep. It's late.”

“Yes, it is. But he is not asleep. I can see if he would like to speak to you.”

“It's late,” Phil repeated, stubbornly. “He should be asleep.”

“As should you. And yet, here we are.” Jarvis sounded amused. “He becomes lonely late at night, as well. Despite our best efforts, he appears to have inherited his father's sleep patterns, and they are not the best.”

Phil crouched down, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Maybe,” he allowed, his face buried against his knees, muffling the word. “This place is scary.”

The door opened with a click. “DJ would like to see you. If you will, please follow the lights, and I will guide you to the workshop.” There was a pause. “Perhaps we can take a more conventional route this time?”

He considered the open door. His toes curled up, and he tugged the too long pants down to cover them. “Are you sure he's still awake?”

“Quite sure.”

Phil straightened up. “Are you sure it's okay?”

“I am sure of that, as well. You may remain here if you would like. Perhaps DJ can come see you?”

Phil's shoulders twitched. DJ was half his age, if that. A little kid. And it wasn't right, to ask him to go walking out at this time of night. Even he knew that. He sucked in a breath, slow and careful. His hand was flat on the door before he realized what he was doing, pushing it open. “Where do I go?”

“Left, to the end of the hall. Please follow the lights.”

It wasn't a long trip, not when someone was showing him where to go. In a matter of minutes, he was navigating down the last flight of stairs, the ones he'd taken the first time he'd seen DJ. And once again, DJ was waiting on the other side of the glass wall, clad only in pair of battered pajama pants. 

This time, though, he was grinning, his hands pressed against the glass, and when Phil hopped down to the floor, the door opened with a click, and DJ shot out. “Hi,” Phil said, trying not to laugh at the way that DJ was bouncing back and forth in front of him. “Hi, you- Calm down, DJ, geez, it's-”

DJ shot off, back into the dark workshop, and then, when Phil stood there, dumbfounded, he doubled back. DJ hopped up and down in front of him, his bare feet skimming over the floor in a rapid, wild sort of dance.

“What?” Phil asked, unable to keep the grin off of his face. “What do you-”

DJ reached out and snagged the hem of Phil's shirt. He tugged. “Phil,” he said, in that soft, halting voice of his.

“DJ?” Phil asked, and DJ pointed. “Okay, okay.” Giving in to the inevitable, Phil followed where DJ lead. He tried not to look around too much; this room was creepy in the middle of the night. He reached out without thinking, catching DJ's small hand in his. “DJ, what are you doing in here so late?” he asked, and DJ glanced back at him.

“Home,” he said, and if that made any sense, DJ pulled him through the door to the playroom. DJ released Phil's hand, and pointed at the tree. Then he was off and running again, disappearing towards the back of the room. When he returned, he was dragging an armload of pillows and blankets, piled so high in his arms that he had to crane his head to the side to see where he was going.

He shifted most of his pile to Phil's arms, tripping over a trailing corner of a blanket when he did. Without missing a beat, he was scrambling across the floor, leaving Phil to follow behind. Phil had to fumble to get a grip on everything, but when he did, he followed DJ up the stairs. “Where are we going?” he asked, but he was smiling as he said it, almost laughing. “DJ!”

Above him, DJ threw the blankets and pillows off of the walkway, letting them tumble down into the net that was stretched among the branches. He hopped over the railing, tossing himself down into the pile. He bounced, giggling as he rolled.

Phil took a deep breath, and followed him. The fall was both longer and shorter than he'd expected, and the net caught him before he could draw a second breath. Phil squeezed his eyes shut, a bubble of laughter pressing against his throat. The blankets bounced along with him, and he struggled to wrap himself up, to build himself a warm spot in mid-air.

DJ waited until Phil was settled, his expression expectant. His blankets were tangled around his legs, and his pillows were piled around him in a comfortable looking little nest. Phil lay back, not sure what DJ was up to, but more comfortable here, in this strange, broad hammock, then he had been back in that too unfamiliar bed.

“Well?” Phil asked, smiling at DJ. DJ looked up.

“Good night.” Jarvis' voice was warm, and the lights dimmed, casting shadows over the playroom. Phil rolled over, dragging the blankets up over his shoulder, blinking hard against a sudden wave of exhaustion.

DJ raised his hands over his head, his head back, his fingers spread, a brilliant, almost maniacal grin on his face. For an instant, everything was still, and Phil realized he was holding his breath. Before he could release it, the air around them exploded with light.

And Phil stopped breathing entirely.

The arching branches above them moved, shifting with a wind that rose from no where. The leaves shifted, a sound like rain, and between them, around them, a thousand points of light came to life, moving with the wind and against it, in swirling, dancing constellations. Beyond that, beyond the tree, high above them, the lines of the room faded into a clear night sky, like the building had melted away.

Phil sat there, his mouth gaping open, as the lights danced around them. One peeled away, hovering in front of Phil, and he froze as it slipped in close, swirling around his head. Cautiously, he reached out a hand, and the light ghosted over his skin before disappearing. Phil's hand fell back to his side, mesmerized by the way the lights moved. He wasn't sure what they were, they were too bright to be fireflies, their light too steady.

And they seemed to dance to a tune that only DJ could hear. The boy had collapsed back into his nest of blankets and was now rearranging things to his satisfaction. The dancing sparks hovered around him, lighting upon his dark curls. 

"Is this magic?" Phil asked, his voice hushed, and the pale oval of DJ's face turned in his direction.

DJ considered that, his eyes blinking rapidly. "Maybe," he allowed, and then he smiled. He reached a hand up, and the lights came darting in, leaving trails of sparks in their wake, to bounce against his palm. DJ giggled, his face bright with reflected starlight.

“Are you magic?” Phil asked him, because it seemed to fit. And nothing was odd anymore. Nothing felt that strange, not here.

DJ's laugh rippled in the wind. “Yes,” he said.

“My grandfather told me stories,” Phil said, as he watched the will o' the wisps dart between DJ's fingers. “About Changelings.” He shifted in the net, curling up in the blankets. He tucked his bare feet up under the hem. “About, about these fairy children, that were left behind in human cradles. Like, sometimes, a baby would just be replaced with a fairy, and-” The words were slurred, heavy on his tongue, and he blinked hard, trying to make sense. “Sometimes, sometimes-” The yawn caught him off guard, and he pulled the blanket up over his shoulder. 

He strained to keep his eyes open, and DJ was watching him, his expression curious. Phil grinned. “You're a Changeling. That's- That's neat. I've always wanted to meet one.”

His eyes closed, but he was aware, as he curled up tight, of having wandered into a fairy tale. One with heroes, and knights, and magic, and an enchanted little boy who curled up against his side. His eyes opened, one last time, as he rolled to the side, clinging to the view of fairy lights and the ancient, gnarled tree that sheltered them.

He thought, just before he nodded off, that that might explain the shadowy figure that was sitting in the hollow formed by the tree's roots, a bow braced on one upthrust knee.

*

He felt like he'd been hit by a truck.

Phil opened his eyes, and it hurt more than it should have. Gritting his teeth against a spike of pain behind his temples, he struggled to get his eyes to focus. He regretted it immediately.

Phil did a quick recalculation. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck, and he had no idea where he was. Or why there was what appeared to be a very small foot tucked under his chin. He stared at it, trying to force his eyes to focus on the little foot and the kid attached to it, who was mostly a purplish blur.

“Good morning, Agent Coulson. How are you feeling?”

“Well, that answers one question,” Phil said, putting a hand over his eyes and squeezing, trying to keep his eyeballs in place. “I'm in the Tower. And DJ is wearing Hawkeye pajamas. I've been better, Jarvis. Where, exactly, in the tower, am I?”

“In the net in DJ's playroom. Do you have any memory of the past twenty-four hours?”

Phil stopped. Thought about that. Tilted his head to the side to consider the floor of the playroom, a long way below them. “You mean, do I have any memory of how I ended up asleep in DJ's playroom? No. No, I do not.”

“I see. What is the last thing you do remember?”

Phil pushed himself up, inch by painful inch. He forced himself to focus on thinking to distract himself from how much everything hurt. “Ah, there was... “ He winced. “There was something that-” His eyes shot open. “You were offline.”

“That I was.”

“You okay now?” Phil rubbed his forehead. “I assume you are, but still?”

“Sir did discover the issue, and it has been resolved. I appreciate your concern.”

“I'm glad,” Phil said, because he was really not prepared for dealing with Tony Stark without Jarvis' able assistance. Especially not with this hangover. “Everyone else was going, but I wasn't mission cleared because...” His voice trailed away. “Because...”

“Because you have a concussion,” Clint's voice came from below him, and Phil twisted his head around to find Clint smiling up at him. “Hey there, sir.”

“Why am I in DJ's net?” Phil asked.

“Well, because in the middle of the night you slipped out of bed, crept through the halls, found DJ and decided to have a sleepover with him,” Clint said, jogging up the stairs. Phil watched him, his eyes moving even though his head didn't budge. “As it turns out, probably one of your better ideas.”

Phil took a deep breath, and waited for his stomach to settle. “You think so, do you?”

“As it turns out? I do.” Clint boosted himself up over the railing, but stayed sitting there, his legs dangling over the edge and his arms braced on his knees. 

Phil stared him down. “What happened?” he asked, on a sigh.

“You got hit by a misplaced spell,” Clint said. “And ended up being nine years old and completely confused, so you tried to rescue DJ and escape from the building. You got really close to making it out, too.”

Phil took a breath, and another. “I wish I could convince myself you were lying.”

“Sorry.”

Phil winced. “I was running around? As a child?” He struggled to remember something, anything from the past day, but the whole thing was a blank, a white space that he'd encountered before, but never liked. He rubbed his forehead, knowing better than to try to force memory that was not going to come. “Wonderful.” He gritted his teeth. “The whole team saw me?” he asked, mournful.

“If it's any consolation, even Stark thought you were a really excellent badass at age nine,” Clint said, grinning, and Phil covered his eyes with one hand.

“Why,” he asked, and there was a broken, horrible note to his voice. Clint, the damn bastard, started laughing. Phil ignored him, because his head was killing him, and his stomach was raw and sour, and he wanted to go back to sleep.

Warm breath tickled his skin, and he pried his hand away from his eyes. DJ was hovering over him, way too close and way too to wide-eyed. Phil winced. “Hi,” he said, and DJ's face fell. He leaned even closer, and Phil tried for a smile.

DJ sighed and sat back. He turned, craning his head in Clint's direction.

“Sorry, buddy,” Clint said. “Think he's back to normal.”

DJ's lower lip came out in a distinct pout. “Little?” he asked Phil.

“Sorry,” Phil said, and he wasn't sure why he was apologizing, but apparently, he was. “Not anymore, it would seem.” He pushed himself up, his movements awkward because there was no easy way to get out of a net. DJ bounced beside him for a second, then scrambled across the net like the monkey that he was, proving Phil wrong without a blink.

“You need help?” Clint asked.

“No, I don't-” He glared in Clint's direction. “I am sure this is your fault. Somehow. I'm sure that you are at fault.”

“In this case, you are correct,” Clint said, sliding down to brace one foot on the steps, with one hand on the bannister. He held out his other hand, balanced easily just above the netting, and Phil took it, beyond pride at this point. 

“No, seriously,” he asked, as Clint pulled him up to the bannister. DJ, crouched on top of the bannister, just giggled at the two of them as Phil tried to get his feet back on solid ground. “You, you don't get to mock me,” Phil told DJ.

DJ grinned at him, then hopped down to the stairs. Phil leaned back against the tree, watching him go. “Seriously,” he said to Clint.

“It was kind of fucked up,” Clint said. He paused. “I think DJ enjoyed having someone around his own age to play with.”

“I really do not want to believe you,” Phil said.

“You told me your mother's secret stew ingredient.”

Phil glanced at him. “What?”

“Squash.”

Phil bit back a swear. “Apparently nine year old me didn't fear being disowned. I remember more respectful fear of my parents.”

“I'm sure she'll forgive you.” Clint took a deep breath. “You were a really cute kid, Phil.”

Phil scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I need so much coffee right now.”

“That, I think we can do.” Clint headed down the stairs, his hands in his pockets. “Phil?” When Phil glanced in his direction, Clint met his eyes. “Do you remember giving me your code phrase?”

Phil frowned at him. “Code phrase?”

Clint was already shaking his head. “Never mi-”

The cotton wool of his brain finally made sense of that. “Ocher moon.” Phil gave a snort of a laugh. “I did. I did tell you that, what was that, Kosovo?”

“Kosovo,” Clint agreed. “When the-”

“Building was collapsing,” Phil said. He shook his head. “That is-” He glanced at Clint. “You remembered that.”

“Yeah.” Clint paused at the bottom of the stairs. His bow as leaning against the base of the tree, and he collected it, slinging it over his shoulder. “Why did you tell me?”

Phil considered that. “I think,” he said, trying to remember. “Because you needed an expression of trust.” He smiled. “And I trusted you.”

“You hadn't known me very long.”

“I trusted you, though,” Phil said. “Haven't regretted that decision yet.”

“I am kind of responsible for you ending up de-aged.”

Phil shook his head. “Still don't regret it.” 

“You're taking this whole 'you lost 24 hours of time and it's because you were a nine year old,' a lot better than I would've thought,” Clint said.

“Not the weirdest thing to happen to me in the line of duty.” Phil's lips twitched. “Or this relationship.”

Clint grinned. “You were a really adorable nine year old,” he said. “Also your mother will probably be calling today.”

Phil winced, his shoulders twitching. “You told my mother?” he asked, resigned to the answer.

“Phil? A small, angry version of you tried to kidnap DJ and make a run for 5th Avenue. You're lucky that we didn't send Stark to go fetch your mother. In the armor.”

"She probably would've climbed aboard," Phil said.  
"Don't kid yourself, Phil, she would've pried him out of the suit and climbed in."

“I need so much coffee.”

There was a scuffing sound, and then DJ was back, holding a play sword in each hand. He held one out to Phil, his face hopeful.

"He's not going to go back to being small, sparky," Clint said, reaching for the blade. DJ pulled it out of his reach, his face scrunching up in displeasure. Clint held up his hands. "Okay, okay!" he said, laughing, and DJ pushed the sword towards Phil again.

Phil crouched down. "Did we play with these?" he asked. DJ nodded. Phil gave a faint laugh. "Let me get something to eat, okay, then..." He took it. "It's been a while. But I bet I can remember how this goes."


End file.
